Joey DiAngelis got to his feet. "This I gotta see." Outside, Tom waited impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot, breath steaming in the cold November air, while Joey went to the big metal box on the side of the house and threw a switch. High atop their poles, the junkyard lights blazed to life. The dogs gathered around, sniffing, and followed them when they began to walk. Joey had a beer bottle poking out of a pocket of his black leather jacket.
It was only a junkyard, full of garbage and scrap metal and wrecked cars, but tonight it seemed as magical as when Tommy was ten. On a rise overlooking the black waters of New York Bay, an ancient white Packard loomed like a ghostly fort. That was just what it had been, when Joey and he had been kids; their sanctum, their stronghold, their cavalry outpost and space station and castle rolled all in one. It shone in the moonlight, and the waters beyond were full of promise as they lapped against the shore. Darkness and shadows lay heavy in the yard, changing the piles of trash and metal into mysterious black hills, with a maze of gray alleys between them. Tom led them into that labyrinth, past the big trash heap where they'd played king-of-the-mountain and dueled with scrapiron swords, past the treasure troves where they'd found so many busted toys and hunks of colored glass and deposit bottles, and once even a whole cardboard carton full of comic books.
They walked between rows of twisted, rusty cars stacked one on another; Fords and Chevys, Hudsons and DeSotos, a Corvette with a shattered accordion hood, a litter of dead Beetles, a dignified black hearse as dead as the passengers it had carried. Tom looked at them all carefully. Finally he stopped. "That one," he said, pointing to the remains of a gutted old Studebaker Hawk. Its engine was gone, as were its tires; the windshield was a spiderweb of broken glass, and even in the darkness they could see where rust had chewed away at the fenders and side panels. "Not worth anything, right?"
Joey opened his beer. "Go ahead, it's all yours."
Tom took a deep breath and faced the car. His hands became fists at his side. He stared hard, concentrating. The car rocked slightly. Its front grill lifted an unsteady couple of inches from the ground.
"Whooo-eeee," Joey said derisively, punching Tom lightly in the shoulder. The Studebaker dropped with a clang, and a bumper fell off. "Shit, I'm impressed,". Joey said.
"Damn it, keep quiet and leave me alone," Tom said. "I can do it, I'll show you, just shut your fuckin' mouth for a minute. I've been practicing. You don't know the things I can do."
"Won't say a fuckin' word," Joey promised, grinning. He took a swig of his beer.
Tom turned back to the Studebaker. He tried to blot out everything, forget about Joey, the dogs, the junkyard; the Studebaker filled his world. His stomach was a hard little ball. He told it to relax, took several deep breaths, let his fists uncurl. Come on, come on, take it easy, don't get upset, do it, you've done more than this, this is easy, easy.
The car rose slowly, drifting upward in a shower of rust. Tom turned it around and around, faster and faster. Then, with a triumphant smile, Tom threw it fifty feet across the junkyard.
It crashed into a stack of dead Chevys and brought the whole thing down in an avalanche of metal.
Joey finished his Rheingold. "Not bad. A few years ago, you could barely lift me over a fence."
"I'm getting stronger all the time," Tom said.
Joey DiAngelis nodded, and tossed his empty bottle to the side. "Good" he said, "then you won't have any problem with me, willya?" He gave Tom a hard push with both hands.
Tom staggered back a step, frowning. "Cut it out, Joey."
"Make me," Joey said. He shoved him again, harder. This time Tom almost lost his footing.
"Damn it, stop it," Tom said. "It's not funny, Joey."
"No?" Joey said. He grinned. "I think it's fuckin' hilarious. But hey, you can stop me, can't you? Use your damn power." He moved right up in Tom's face and slapped him lightly across the cheek. "Stop me, ace," he said. He slapped him harder. "C'mon, Jetboy, stop me." The third slap was the hardest yet. "Let's go, supes, whatcha waitin' for?" The fourth blow had a sharp sting; the fifth snapped Tom's head half around. Joey stopped smiling; Tom could smell the beer on his breath. Tom tried to grab his hand, but Joey was too strong, too fast; he evaded Tom's grasp and landed another slap. "You wanna box, ace? I'll turn you into fuckin' dogmeat. Dork. Asshole." The slap almost tore Tom's head off, and brought stinging tears to his eyes. "Stop me, jagoff," Joey screamed. He closed his hand, and buried his fist in Tom's stomach so hard it doubled him over and took his breath away.
Tom tried to summon his concentration, to grab and push, but it was the schoolyard all over again, Joey was everywhere, fists raining down on him, and it was all he could to do get his hands up and try to block the blows, and it was no good anyway, Joey was much stronger, he pounded him, pushed him, screaming all the while, and Tom couldn't think, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but hurt, and he was retreating, staggering back, and Joey came after him, fists cocked, and caught him with an uppercut that landed right on his mouth with a crack that made his teeth hurt. All of a sudden Tom was lying on his back on the ground, with a mouth full of blood.
Joey stood over him frowning. "Fuck," he said. "I didn't mean to bust your lip." He reached down, took Tom by the hand, and yanked him roughly to his feet.
Tom wiped blood from his lip with the back of his hand. There was blood on the front of his shirt too. "Look at me, I'm all messed up," he said with disgust. He glared at Joey. "That wasn't fair. You can't expect me to do anything when you're pounding on me, damn it."
"Uh-huh," Joey said. "And while you're concentrating and squinting your eyes, you figure the fuckin' bad guys are just gonna leave you alone, right?" He clapped Tom across the back. "They'll knock out all your fuckin' teeth. That's if you're lucky, if they don't just shoot you. You ain't no Jetboy, Tuds." He shivered. "C'mon. It's fuckin' cold out here."
When he woke in warm darkness, Tach remembered only a little of the binge, but that was how he liked it. He struggled to sit up. The sheets he was lying on were satin, smooth and sensual, and beneath the odor of stale vomit he could still smell a faint trace of some flowery perfume.
Unsteady, he tossed off the bedclothes and pulled himself to the edge of the four-poster bed. The floor beneath his bare feet was carpeted. He was naked, the air uncomfortably warm on his bare skin. He reached out a hand, found the light switch, and whimpered a little at the brightness. The room was pink-and-white clutter with Victorian furnishings and thick, soundproofed walls. An oil painting of John R Kennedy smiled down from above the hearth; in one corner stood a three-foot-tall plaster statue of the Virgin Mary.
Angelface was seated in a pink wingback chair by the cold fireplace, blinking at him sleepily and covering her yawn with the back of her hand.
Tach felt sick and ashamed. "I put you out of your own bed again, didn't I?" he said.
"It's all right," she replied. Her feet were resting on a tiny footstool. Her soles were ugly and bruised, black and swollen despite the special padded shoes she wore. Otherwise she was lovely. Unbound, her black hair fell to her waist, and her skin had a flushed, radiant quality to it, a warm glow of life. Her eyes were dark and liquid, but the most amazing thing, the thing that never failed to astonish Tachyon, was the warmth in them, the affection he felt so unworthy of. With all he had done to her, and to all the rest of them, somehow this woman called Angelface forgave, and cared.